That’s a fairly large joint these days.
*Larger *than a rolled cigarette? I’ve never seen a joint that big in real life! :eek:
Yes, yes it is.
There’s no way to know short of a drug test, but due to **Fuzzy **“rarely taking drugs” my guess is that it was just a powerful hybrid strain of weed with no additives or adulterants.
FYI: If there is a next time that you might find yourself in such a predicament, have some ibuprofen at hand.
Was that just weed (absent any mystery ingredient)? Because that’s a decent sized joint these days the way THC content is, particularly if you aren’t used to it/expecting it.
That “bad trip” of yours sounds like one of my good days (wait till you start getting hemorrhoids). 
But, I agree with some of the others—a believe you probably smoked a joint laced with angel dust.
Describing your experience as being like a filmstrip before your eyes brought back bad memories of my “bad trip.” Was yours anything like mine, described below?
(Once again, I anticipated this account to be much shorter than it turned out, really I did! But maybe it’ll steer some of you kids to stay off drugs (and get off my lawn):
I was never one to purposely put much of anything hallucinogenic into my bloodstream, but at the tail end of my teen years, I do admit getting buzzed with my friends with a doobie or two once in a while. It just made eating junk food and watching old episodes of Lost in Space all the more pleasurable.
One time, before traveling home (my parent’s home) from school, I was given a joint from a friend of a friend who told me it was really good stuff (looking back, I think he snickered a little when he gave it to me).
Back at home, my parents were out to dinner and it was just me and our cat, Tibby (my namesake), home alone. I had a little time before I expected my girlfriend, let’s call her Jill, to pick me up (she had a car; I just had a motorcycle and the roads were icy), then we’d be off to a party on the other side of town. So, I thought I’d get a little pre-party buzz on before heading out and stoked up the snickering-friend-of-a-friend’s joint. It tasted a little odd, but, what the heck—one doesn’t look a gift horse in the mouth and all that.
I felt the typical light-headed high coming on, nice and relaxing. But then, somewhere around mid-joint, things got a little…uh, unusual. Then, things slowly slipped down into bizarre-ville. I looked at the cat and said, *“Tibby, we’re not in Kansas anymore”. *
When Tibby replied, “you’re right about that, boss” , I knew I was in trouble. What followed was my mental journey into a Stephen King story, and it was worse than being told Pennywise the Clown was my uncle (…to be clear, Pennywise isn’t really my uncle, I’m just sayin’).
At first, the mind bending was mildly pleasant, that is, before the dissociative psychosis kicked in. My mind and heartbeat began racing. Thoughts became faster and faster, they felt like they were being run close-up before my eyes on a clackity 8mm film projector, accelerating till the film cell images began to blur at the edges, like a vignette defocused border.
At that point I felt I had no control over my thoughts. I was simply an actor playing a role, with no deviation from the script allowed. Then, the horrible thought popped into my head that anything I thought about doing, would have to be done. That thought quickly became a compulsion and I tried desperately to divert my attention so as not to have any bad thought pop into my head.
But, it was too late. What popped into my mind was the thought to walk into the kitchen, pull out a long filet knife and stab myself in the heart. Interestingly, this was not suicidal ideation, in fact it was just the opposite: I most certainly did not want to die, but felt I was unable to prevent myself from killing me—this was a very stressful feeling, let me tell you. Thinking my parents would not enjoy coming home from dinner and finding their son with a knife protruding from his chest, I tried everything I could think of to clear my mind of this compulsive thought. I went room to room turning radios and TVs on full volume, but nothing worked. The DJ’s were no help, they just told me to “do it.”
Finally, a clear, intelligent thought popped into my head: I needed to call my girlfriend and have her drive over immediately to help me out (she was a good helper-outer, and cute, too). I called her house, and her father answered. I didn’t realize it was her father at first (no, my girlfriend didn’t have a very low pitched voice, nor her father a high pitched one, my hearing was just off kilter).
Anyway, I don’t know what I said or how I said it, but the father said, “who the hell is this?” and hung up on me. Thank God we didn’t have caller ID in those days. Thankfully, Jill had a hunch it was me on the phone and called back. Somehow I got the point across that I needed her as soon as humanly possible. Speed was of an essence now, not only because I was thinking of murdering myself (though that’s not a bad reason alone to seek help), but my mind cleared enough to realize my parents would be home at any time.
It seemed like eternity, but Jill got to my house as soon as she could and helped me down the stairs. Then we cleaned up the mess I made and turned off the radios and TVs. As she was supporting me by the arm toward her car, my parents pulled up the driveway. Jill said, "Hi Mr. and Mrs. Tibby, we’re going to a party.” I managed to wave to them before getting in the car. Close call!
We arrived at the party and Jill convinced the host I wasn’t feeling well and asked that I sleep it off in one of the bedrooms (the host was drunk, he didn’t care). I passed out on top of a stack of the party-goer’s coats. I awoke about an hour later, a little, but not much clearer headed and asked Jill to locate a notebook and pen, because, you know, I had the meaning of life all figured out from this mind trip and I needed to write it down before I forgot it. So, I wrote and I wrote and I was convinced I’d soon be receiving a Pulitzer Prize. When I looked at the notebook the next morning, there was nothing but 3 pages of chicken scratch.
I felt like I had been through hell the next day, but very happy the ordeal was over and that it would never happen again. But, it wasn’t over, not quite. I also found out from my friend, that his friend told him the joint he gave me was laced with PCP, but he thought I would enjoy it, or that it was funny…or something like that—bottom line, he was just an idiot.
I had 2 brief flashback experiences that scared me quite a bit (thinking maybe I was slowly going insane), but now seem pretty funny. The first was about a week later when I was back at school and got onto a trolley car (Philly still has trolley cars). As soon as I walked up the trolley steps and was about to reach into my pocket for the trolley fare, I looked down and saw that my hands were gone. They were no longer at the ends of my arms where they were supposed to be. I just stood there frozen like an imbecil while the trolley driver starts loudly demanding that I either put money in the machine or get off the trolley. I got off the trolley. My hands popped back in place, so it could have been worse.
The second flashback occurred weeks after that. I was at another party (hey, I was young, youngsters party) and was a little tipsy from too much beer. I was engaged in a deep conversation with someone I just met. But, after I while, I noticed that he looked a lot like me. He even talked like me. Then he got a little blurry and he looked even more like me, and he smiled like me. Then I realized (mistakenly, of course) that he was me. I was talking to myself, only instead of the usual way people do it (i.e. all in their head), I was talking to myself in a separate body. The guy must have noticed an odd look on my face, because he said, “are you all right?”
I relied, “I’m not sure. Are you me?”
“Huh?”
“I’m pretty sure that you’re me, are you?”
“I…uh…what?”
Luckily a friend of mine was listening in who knew about my bad trip and prior flashback. He told the other me that I had a warped sense of humor and got me out of there.
That happened 35 years ago and I’ve been pretty much straight ever since (…well, to me, Merlot doesn’t count as an inebriant—it’s nectar that flows from the teat of Aphrodite).
I found this video interesting. As I was beginning to feel numb (and worried of suicide or death) the thought of throwing myself out of the window was my worst fear.
I love, love, love me some cannabis. But I once had some weed with ketamine added and did not like it one bit. It was somewhat like the OP’s experience. I tried it several more times, each time with the same effects, before finally saying never again.
Well, it’s good you didn’t just give up.
I agree. Once I accidentally whacked my toe hard with a hammer and I didn’t like the feeling. But, I thought, maybe I didn’t give it a fair chance, so whacked it many more times before finally concluding the feeling wasn’t improving and stopped cold turkey.
Lemme esplain. It was intense. Intensely negative, but still sooo intense. It’s possible (IME) to step back and enjoy the intensity of something, sometimes, hell oftentimes, but it was just too much work.
I’m in western PA.
Now you’ve got me thinking of wood chippers.
Yeah, it’s hard to tell. A hit or two of regular pot can send me off into anxiety attack territory, complete with dissociative feelings (like I was watching myself rather than being myself), and that film-strip sensation of the world going by in flickers. Oh, and weird feelings of constriction on my limbs. It happened maybe a quarter of the time I did weed, so I just stopped doing it. I can’t imagine what three quarters of a joint of today’s pot would do to me, but I don’t necessarily think the OP’s experience would definitely suggest lacing. It might. It might be synthetic pot (I don’t know, as I haven’t had it). Or it could just be normal strong pot, and you just reacted oddly to it.
Actually, I do understand your enjoying the intense pain/pleasure thing. I, for example actually enjoy some forms of dental pain (playing with a loose tooth with your tongue, for instance), and when my ex-wife used to stick a live gerbil up my…oh, that reminds me; I bought my kids a guinea pig last week. Guinea pigs actually make fine pets. They like to be petted, usually sleep through the night and don’t try to run away.
Sorry, got my attention diverted.
…used to stick a live gerbil up my sleeve and let him tickle my arm.
It’s starting to sound like Fuzzy_Wuzzy, and a few others among us, should try this thing repeatedly.
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I’m in bed in Portland ME.
I have seen strains of pot today that are over 27% THC. That is a lot. This is the kind where 3 or 4 puffs is all you need. I can see an inexperienced user smoking 3/4 of a joint getting completely freaked out and almost disabled.
Read about Maureen Dowd’s experience with edible pot in Colorado. 8 hours in a hallucinatory state, couldn’t move out of bed, didn’t know where she was. Its pretty funny, but was no doubt very frightening to her at the time.
Didn’t your momma warn you about taking drugs from strangers?
Wow. OK first of all I blame you for me watching Youtube videos for the last hour of people tripping out on drugs.
Second of all. WOW! I’ve never been a drug user; and I really don’t understand why anyone would do that intentionally. :eek:
Thanks for posting that link though. To me that was just totally freaking amazing.